


Glamour in the Strangest Places

by phxsphorvs (andsowefell)



Category: Lucifer (Comic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Historical, But it's okay they're cute, Crack Relationships, Domestic Fluff, Drug Use, Fluff and Crack, Food Issues, Lucifer is a Little Shit, M/M, Michael is a little shit too, New York City
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 12:33:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5540108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andsowefell/pseuds/phxsphorvs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucifer and Michael go out for a night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glamour in the Strangest Places

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ReasonablyUnreasonable](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReasonablyUnreasonable/gifts).



Lucifer inhales the dirty grey smoke in front of his face, blissfully (and rather pointedly) ignoring Michael’s horrified blanch. His eyes fill with tears for a moment, and when he’s blinked them away what is looking at Michael is about as golden as rusty quarters and as alive as fried fish. Not to mention dull, cloudy and completely absent.  
“Lucifer, what was that?” Michael asks, uneasier than he hopes he sounds, and Lucifer gestures wildly at the name of the place they’re in: _Rudy’s Shisha Shack_. That doesn’t clear anything up for Michael; he doesn’t even know what in God’s name a shisha _IS_.    
“Marijuana. Water vapors,” Lucifer supplies helpfully, voice cold and disinterested, eyes still murky. Michael must admit, he’s beginning to feel worried (not to mention annoyed with Lucifer for having been in his head), so he takes the thing that Lucifer has been nipping at and occasionally sucking from for the past two hours away, and Lucifer promptly leaps over the table, snarling, eyes wild (and shiny) again, and knocks the shisha ( _his shisha, fuck_ ) out of Michael’s hands to the floor where it shatters.   
Some places still like to use porcelain and ceramic, it seems.  
Michael stares at him, shocked, and lets his jaw drop open. “Lucifer.” is all he says.  
“We should go to that restaurant on 55th, it looks nice,” is all Lucifer says.  
Michael is well past being shocked by this sudden change in behaviour; he’s come to expect it, if anything.  
“As long as it’s respectable and you remain normal, I’m willing to go anywhere you like.”  
“Thanks, love,” Lucifer grins cheekily and presses a mocking kiss to Michael’s cheek.

They reach 55th Ave. at ten past two, and Lucifer pulls Michael to a stop in front of a restaurant whose sign loudly and boldly (and gaudily) declares it to be _The Best Colombian Food This Side of the Andes: Alejandro’s Crispy Wings_.  
Michael’s rather hungry, and chicken wings _do_ sound good. They enter.  
The restaurant serves bat wings, with the skin still attached. Lucifer runs out as soon as his plate arrives, trying not to vomit.  
He later claims he’s never bothered to learn Colombian. Michael doesn’t deign to tell him that yes, he _does_ in fact speak Spanish,and quite well at that, as the Spanish Inquisition has proven, and that he should have known bat wings were a common item of food in Colombia. As for blaming himself, all Michael can say is that he didn’t expect a Colombian restaurant.

New York is full of fascinating restaurants and bars and taverns and clubs, and they try as many of them as they can. Most are expensive and golden and well-lit and smell like heaven. None of them are as good as LUX, but there are several that make Lucifer look absolutely glorious, and have him and Michael leave staggering, their necks peppered with kisses and gentle bites.

They reach Michael’s flat at three in the morning, precisely, drunk on good sake and Riesling, excellent Chateau D'Yquem (which they afforded with a credit card Lucifer stole), and shitty ale and cider that taste like they’ve actually come from the middle ages.  
They’re staggering, and well and properly disoriented.  
Once inside, Lucifer toes off his shoes, trips over the crack between floorboards, unbuttons his jacket and shirt, shrugs out of his shirt, and flops onto the elegant black couch he’d bought for Michael artlessly. Michael follows suit, although considerably more clothed, and takes the Morningstar’s hand in his own, drawing little circles over Lucifer’s knuckles with his thumb.   
Then, he remembers what they’ve been talking about since they staggered home.  
“The point is, the point is…” he tries, and Lucifer looks up curiously.  
“The point is _mermaids_ ,” he offers helpfully, and Michael brightens happily, and gives Lucifer a kiss.  
“Yes, mermaids!” he exclaims. “They’ve got lovely long hair, and, and…”  
“Tails,” Lucifer helps. Michael positively beams at him, then. He kisses Lucifer a second time, ruffles the Morningstar’s hair lovingly, and rolls over to place his chin on Lucifer’s chest.  
“Yes, tails. Like fish.” Michael can’t help but be delighted by how _ingenious_ they both are.   
Lucifer hums happily, and pets a hand through Michael’s hair, letting the long, platinum strands drag over his fingertips.  
“You smell like wine,” he finally tells Michael.   
“Thank you,” Michael smiles. “Lucifer.”  
“Yes.”  
Michael tilts his head sideways, nuzzles into Lucifer’s sternum, surprised by how many things Lucifer can do at once; he’s warm, and soft in a nice way, and his heart sounds nice, too.   
“You’re comfortable.”  
“Thank you,” Lucifer smiles, and continues petting Michael’s hair. “You’re pretty.”  
“Yes,” Michael agrees. “So’re you.”  
He hears Lucifer’ heart speed up, and feels a quick rush of heat as Lucifer probably blushes.   
Then, Lucifer makes a noncomittal noise, and tells Michael, “I know.”  
“You’re so smart, darling,” Michael praises. Lucifer positively glows with pride at the compliment.  
“I know,” he repeats.

They fall asleep, still drunk and bubbly.   
Michael curls one arm around Lucifer, burrows his face in the crook of Lucifer’s neck.  
“Love you,” he mutters.  
Lucifer turns to face him, smiles sleepily, and kisses Michael one last time before turning out the light with a lazy wave of his hand.  
“I know,” he rumbles.  
Michael swats him.


End file.
